DOA
by fabala-fae
Summary: One doctor is dead, and the County staff can only point fingers at each other as one by one they too become victims of a serial killer's game... Uploaded through chapter 3, chapter 4 to come when I finally write it! hehe
1. Part 1: Accusation

Title: DOA, part 1: Accusation  
  
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine, no matter how much I wish they were.  
  
Rating: R, for violence and language.  
  
Summary: One doctor is dead, and the County staff can only point fingers at each other as one by one they too become victims of a serial killer's game...  
  
Notes: I wrote this a while ago, but I'm a recent addition to ff.net, and since I'm planning on finishing the series soon, I may as well have it up here . . .  
  
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"Do you want a cup of coffee?"  
  
He looked up. "Huh?"  
  
The secretary gave him an irritated glare. "Coffee. While you wait."  
  
He contemplated this. "Uh, no. No thanks." Like he needed coffee to keep his mind going. He had all the thoughts in the world to do that for him.  
  
Relative silence penetrated the room. Besides the ringing phones, the constant hollers of officers and inmates, and the ongoing police sirens outside the dirty window, he couldn't hear a thing.  
  
'Why do they want to question me?' he thought fretfully. 'I haven't done anything wrong. I don't know about anything illegal.'  
  
Another voice in his head gleefully answered the first: 'They found out. You know they found out.'  
  
'They couldn't have found out,' the young doctor quickly convinced himself. 'There is no way that anyone could know about this. I hid it so well . . .'  
  
Suddenly the piercing "Beep beep" of a pager caught his attention. He reached down to check the message; plucking the pager from his belt, he squinted at the tiny screen. "Excuse me," he called out to the secretary, "but is this going to take much longer? I'm on call at County today and I've just been paged."  
  
The secretary narrowed her eyes at the young man. "The sergeant will see you any minute now," she told him.  
  
He groaned loudly and leaned back in the hard leather chair. "Someone could be dying in the ER, and I'm sitting here, waiting to be questioned about something I don't even know about!" he hollered, growing increasingly louder with each proclamation. "Something is wrong with this system-"  
  
Just then the big wooden door opened; the battered blinds on the small window rattled against the glass as the door swung open. A burly man took a step through the doorway and surveyed the room. His eyes settled on the young man: "You the doctor?"  
  
The young man swallowed hard and nodded quickly.  
  
The burly man pointed a thumb into the dark room. "This won't take long," he told the doctor, who clutched his coat and nervously stepped into the room. The door banged shut behind him.  
  
All noise from the office outside was hushed inside this box of a room. It was the typical interrogation scene; it could have been taken from any police movie. The walls were made of gray cement, and a huge (presumably two-way) mirror captured his frightened expression. A long table was adorned with only a desk lamp, which shone bright light straight across the room. Two chairs were placed on opposite ends of the table, and as he stepped across the room and sat down in the farthest, the intense heat of the lamp already made him sweat.  
  
The burly man sat at the opposite side of the table. "I'm Sergeant Peterson," he informed the doctor. "I know you've gotta get back to your hospital so I won't take too much more of your time."  
  
He nodded. The room was silent for a moment. "So, do you mind telling me what this is all about?" the doctor asked bluntly. Act dumb.  
  
The sergeant took out a file folder and set it on the table. "I think you know what this is about."  
  
The doctor was silent. Shit. They did know.  
  
"Mind telling me where you were at about 9:00 last night?" Peterson suddenly asked.  
  
'They definitely know,' he thought glumly. "I was . . . on a date." His voice was squeaky.  
  
"Really." Peterson raised an eyebrow skeptically.  
  
The sergeant wasn't buying it. But why shouldn't he? It was the truth! "Yeah, really," came the annoyed response.  
  
The sergeant studied him. "I only ask because according to a Dr.-" Peterson flipped through the chart - "Weaver, you were working at Cook County General until 10 last night. Which either means that you ditched the last hour of your shift, or you're lying to me." Peterson glared menacingly.  
  
'These are my choices?!' the doctor thought, feeling trapped. 'Either way, I'm screwed. If I tell him the truth, that I skipped out on an hour of my shift to go on a date, Weaver will be on my ass.'  
  
"How well did you know her?" the sergeant suddenly asked.  
  
Oh, yes. They knew all right. "Not . . . not well. I'd really barely talked to her before." No reason to tell them that he'd met Deborah West, his 17 year old patient, only 20 minutes before their date. It seemed inconsequential. Plus, if they were going to nail him on sleeping with a minor, any additional details wouldn't help him at all.  
  
Just then the big door opened; noise from the office leaked into the small, cement cell. "Peterson, a word," an officer said briefly.  
  
Peterson stood up and walked across the room. "I'll be right back," he grumbled as he slammed the door shut.  
  
The young doctor let out the breath he'd been holding and ran his fingers through his hair. This was becoming a huge deal, and it really shouldn't have. Since when did sleeping with a minor involve a massive interrogation? Especially since he hadn't known how old she was until early this morning, when she had wanted a ride to her homeroom class.  
  
He'd blown up at her; the shock he had felt when she'd admitted her age could have sent him into V-fib. They had fought for a few minutes after that. Their night of drunken ecstasy had ended with a sobbing 17 year old and a silent ride to John F. Kennedy High School.  
  
The doctor had dutifully dropped the girl off in front of her homeroom, praying that no one saw him. He had watched as she had sauntered over to the football game and immediately began flirting with them - and he had driven off, satisfied that he would never see Deborah West ever again.  
  
But they would want to know why he hadn't checked Deborah's age on her ER chart. They wouldn't care that she had lied to him and said she was twenty two. They wouldn't care that *she* had gotten *him* drunk enough to wake up naked this morning in some sleazy motel room. Oh, no. All they would care about was that he was an adult, and she wasn't.  
  
"Not for 7 months, anyway," he thought dismally, quoting Deborah's stupid reply to the doctor's question: "What do you mean, you're not 18 yet??"  
  
The doctor's thoughts tapered off as he stared at the door. This guy made him nervous. He had an air of knowing everything around him. It wasn't like the doctor to falter in front of authority . . . but then again, this was the first time he'd done something wrong like this.  
  
"But come on," he rationalized. "How serious could this really be?"  
  
**********************************************  
  
A cloud of smoke hung over the room. "So, does it look like he's gonna confess?" an overweight officer asked, taking another puff of his cigarette.  
  
"Not sure yet," Peterson asked. He stared at the young doctor in the other room through the two-way mirror. "But there's no doubt in my mind that he did it. I've got a sixth sense about this kind of thing. I can smell the guilt on him. He got real nervous when I brought up where he was yesterday."  
  
"That's nothing," another officer scoffed. "So he ditched his shift. So what. It doesn't make him a murderer."  
  
Peterson glared at the officer. "He didn't ditch his shift, I know it. This guy wasn't on a date, he was killing the woman at 9:00 last night, in a Trauma room at Cook County General. He was still on his shift. I'm sure I've explained this to you before, O'Malley."  
  
The officer rolled his eyes. "Face it. You've got no case against this guy unless you prove his alibi is false - and you get a confession."  
  
Peterson narrowed his eyes as he made his way to the door. "I'll prove he killed that other doctor," he growled. "The evidence is stacked against him. His fingerprints are all around the room and the murder weapon, and his badge was found in a pool of blood near the victim." Peterson opened the door to leave, adding "Just give me 10 minutes with him. You'll have your damn confession."  
  
************************************************  
  
The old door opened, and the doctor tensed as the burly sergeant walked back in. "So where were we," Peterson grumbled as he took his seat once again.  
  
The doctor hoped the question was rhetorical - he had no idea where they'd left off. "I'll take European History for $300," he joked nervously.  
  
The sergeant's eyes raged. "Do you think this is some joke?" he suddenly shouted. "Are you that arrogant to think that last night was no big deal?!"  
  
The doctor was shocked. "I . . . I . . ."  
  
"Just shut the hell up!" Peterson snapped. "Get this through your thick damn skull: we know exactly where you were and what you did last night. There's no point in hiding it or in making stupid jokes to cover it up. It's only a matter of time between this moment and your trial. The sooner you tell me what I already know, the easier your sentence might be."  
  
Trial? Sentence?! Stunned, the doctor whispered, "I . . . I didn't know . . . I didn't know, I swear . . ."  
  
"Shut your damn face unless you're gonna say something useful," the sergeant growled. "Tell me why you did it."  
  
Tears were welling in the young doctor's eyes. "I . . . don't know . . . I didn't plan it or anything . . . it was just a spur of the moment thing . . ." What was going on? Since when was did sleeping with a minor grounds for the third degree?  
  
The sergeant shook his head and noted "No pre-meditation" on his chart. "How did you get along with her?" he asked, his tone significantly less belligerent than a few seconds ago.  
  
The young man blinked; his eyes were burning. "Who, Deb?" he asked, frightened. "We got along fine, I guess. Well, not really when I found out she lied to me. We sorta had a fight about that."  
  
The sergeant's eyes widened. "Really. You fought?"  
  
"Yeah . . . I've never, you know, done something like this before," the doctor added hastily. At least they would know he wasn't ordinarily a cradle-robbing pervert.  
  
"Mmm hmmm . . ." the sergeant responded, marking the word "Malice" on his chart. The confession was nearly complete. "You call her 'Deb?' "  
  
"Uh, yeah," he said quickly. "I know that's not her formal name or anything, just a nickname -"  
  
"So let's cut the crap. Tell me where you really were last night."  
  
The doctor was confused. "I told you, on a date. You even said that you knew where I was last night."  
  
"I do know where you were," Peterson snapped, slamming his chart onto the table. "So tell me the truth!"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Let me put it this way," the sergeant growled through gritted teeth. "Do you confess to what you did last night?"  
  
The doctor was sweating bullets under the hot light. "Well, yeah-"  
  
"So you were at Cook County General last night at 9 o'clock last night, in Trauma Room 1?" There was a gleam in the sergeant's eye.  
  
"No! I was on a date!" the young man yelled.  
  
"We have an eyewitness placing you at the hospital at 9 o'clock," the sergeant lied. "Now answer me again: is it possible that you were at the hospital at that time?!"  
  
The doctor considered this. They had an eyewitness placing him at County at 9 last night? Now that he thought about, he might not have actually left the hospital before 9, although he was sure he had . . . and what did this have to do with sleeping with a minor? Shouldn't they be trying to place him with her at that time? "Uh, it might be possible-"  
  
"David Malucci, you are under arrest for the murder of Dr. Jing-Mei Chen!"  
  
Malucci choked on his tongue. "What the hell-"  
  
Several officers tore into the room and slammed Malucci onto the table. "You have the right to remain silent!"  
  
Oh, God. This wasn't right. Jing-Mei? What?! "I don't know what you're talking about!" Malucci cried as his face was slammed into the table. His arms were wrenched painfully as the handcuffs snapped onto his wrists too tightly, cutting off his circulation. These cops were pissed.  
  
"Anything you say or do-"  
  
"No!" Malucci shouted, suddenly swinging around. "You're making a mistake!"  
  
The cops held onto him and tackled him to the hard cement floor. A definite "clunk" resounded through Dave's head as his skull hit the pavement with full force. "Please . . . no . . ." he mumbled as he was dragged out of the room.  
  
"-will be held against you in a court of law . . ."  
  
"Please . . . you're making a mistake . . ." 


	2. Part 2: Retaliation

Title: DOA, Part 2: Retaliation  
  
Spoilers: Eh, some from season 7, I guess.  
  
Rating: R, for violence and language.  
  
What you need to know: Malucci was just arrested for the murder of Jing- Mei.  
  
I am not a doctor, so the medical terms might be off. Same with the police procedures and terms.  
  
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The green linoleum floor gleamed in its cleanliness. Freshly mopped, the linoleum sparkled under the bright lights of Trauma One. A gurney in the middle of the bright room created a shadow over the smooth, clean floor. A Latex glove was carelessly tossed into the corner of the room, interrupting the continuous green glow.  
  
Only one drop of Jing-Mei Chen's blood remained on the floor, somehow missed by the janitor's mop.  
  
Doctors and nurses passed by the cold room all day - a quick glance at the yellow police tape and the bright, shining floor would hasten the step of any passerby. Everyone in the hospital knew what had happened in that room only twelve hours ago. Everyone had heard about the doctor, found in a pool of her own blood, with only a long cut through her throat. Everyone had tried to crowd into the Trauma room next door, trying to revive one of their own. Everyone had seen Mrs. Chen's stiff composure as she affirmatively identified her daughter's body. And everyone had taken a glance into that cold room, that crime scene, for the cheap rush of adrenaline that comes with an emotional surge.  
  
Yet no one had seen Malucci slit Jing-Mei's throat. They hadn't seen anyone. And while a glance into this room was morbidly thrilling, no one dared to cross the yellow police tape - it served as a sort of physical barrier to a place of metaphysical pain and dread.  
  
It was slow this morning at Cook County General - no surprise, since the headline: "DOCTOR MURDERED AT COUNTY HOSPITAL" wasn't much of a promotion for the hospital. Especially the part that named Dr. Dave Malucci, who had cared for so much of the reading public, as Chen's killer. A few policeman lingered around Trauma One and Chairs, not serving much of a purpose besides guarding an already cleared crime scene. The ER stood silently around them. An evacuation had been considered, then cancelled, as Malucci had trudged into his prison cell that morning. A sense of relief swept the staff; yet they now mourned the loss of two doctors. Two friends.  
  
What had gone wrong with Malucci? What had compelled him to do such a thing? The ER was plagued with these questions all morning. An indignant denial from Malucci's friends had sounded, then silenced, when reports of his confession made their way through County. So there was no killer among them - but the fact that the killer had shared their workplace . . . he had cared for innocent people . . . had the last patient fatality been under his care? Had that patient *really* died of cardiac arrest? And what about that rape victim Dave had cared for last week? Had they ever found the rapist? Why hadn't they checked Dave out then . . .  
  
. . . before something like this happened?  
  
And then there were those who wouldn't believe the trite the policemen and the media had fed them. There was no way in hell that Dave would do something like this, not their Dave, not the Dave they knew. This belief introduced a new fear to the ER: if Malucci didn't do it, was the murderer still free? The police at County General were casually unconcerned that a killer could be on the loose - after all, they had their man.  
  
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Dr. Mark Greene was stretched out asleep in an empty exam room. Between the 40 minutes of trying to revive Jing-Mei, the interrogation of the entire staff, and the painful aftermath of losing a dear friend, Mark had missed an entire night's sleep. Sure, he had been off for an hour now, but he was entirely too comfortable and unconscious to wake up now. Mark now didn't have to remember Jing-Mei's glossy, unreactive eyes, or the pool of blood in Trauma One, or the 12 hours of terror before the police had finally arrested Malucci. He could just sleep, and dream of more pleasant things than calling a friend's death.  
  
Yet this pleasure of relaxation was short lived - the piercing wail of an ambulance cut through the peaceful silence and sliced Mark's happy dream. Numbly he stirred and sat up.  
  
The exam door was flung open - "Mark, they need you in Trauma," Haleh announced, poking her head through the door.  
  
Mark nodded and stumbled across the room. Yawning, he shuffled through the ER and grumbled, "What do we got."  
  
"23 year old female, found with a slit throat and no pulse," a paramedic answered.  
  
A twinge of shock ran through Mark as he glanced down at the woman. Found with no pulse, just like Jing-Mei's. Her throat was cut, just like Jing- Mei's. One straight, bleeding line, right across the neck. Approximately 6 inches long.  
  
Shit.  
  
The paramedic started to roll the gurney into Trauma One. Noticing the yellow tape, she asked, "What the hell went on here?"  
  
Mark snapped back to reality and didn't answer as he wheeled the gurney into Trauma Two. "On my count," he instructed the few nurses and paramedics that had come to assist him. "One, two three."  
  
*Bump*  
  
"How long has she been down?" Mark asked, shining a flashlight into the girl's eyes.  
  
"She was down 15 minutes when we got there. We got her back up but she crashed en route, and she's been down for 20 minutes now," the paramedic informed Mark.  
  
"So 20 minutes," Mark snapped, looking up from the girl's face. "I didn't need every goddamn detail. All I needed was '20 minutes.' "  
  
The paramedic stared at him. "Shouldn't you be, I don't know, trying to get her back up instead of bitching at me?" she asked hotly.  
  
Mark shook his head. "She's been down too long," he retorted, swinging his stethoscope around his neck. "Time of death, 9:16."  
  
"You're not even going to try?" the paramedic cried shrilly.  
  
"Nope," Mark answered. "She's got no pulse and she's been down for 20 minutes." With that Mark stepped out of the room, trying to control his breathing. This girl couldn't have met up with the same guy that killed Jing-Mei. After all, Malucci was in jail. He'd been in jail for at least two hours now, and this girl had been attacked during those two hours. There was no tighter alibi than being in prison during a crime.  
  
Mark's mind flashed back to that morning's gigantic headline about the murder. Was this a copycat? Was there now another killer loose in the city? What if-  
  
"Mark!"  
  
Mark looked up just before he ran into Abby Lockhart. "What," he grumbled, not making eye contact.  
  
"I've got an 80 year old schizophrenic in Exam 4 who wants to see you," Abby informed him. "She says you were her doctor before, and she-"  
  
"I'm off, Abby," Mark answered absently, heading towards the lounge.  
  
"You won't even see her?" Abby yelled, irritated by Mark's non-response. Sighing, she walked back to Exam 4, mustered a fake smile, and stepped back inside.  
  
"Where's Dr. Greene?" the elderly woman in the bed asked.  
  
"Dr. Greene's busy," Abby answered with feigned energy. "But I can get you another-"  
  
"What about that other doctor, the Italian-looking one?" the woman demanded. "He's treated me, too!"  
  
"Dr. Malucci isn't here today," Abby answered. checking the woman's IV. She purposely avoided eye contact with the patient - no need on elaborating on Malucci's *exact* location.  
  
"WHERE THE HELL ARE ALL THE GOOD DOCTORS?" the woman suddenly screamed.  
  
"All of our doctors are excellent," Abby informed the woman, her false smile beginning to crack. "Dr. Carter is here, and Dr. Finch will be here in a few hours."  
  
The patient considered this. "How about that little Asian doctor? Will she be in today?"  
  
Abby's smile faded. "No," she answered softly. "No, Dr. Chen won't be in today."  
  
-------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"So last night, you were at a bar, getting drunk with a 17 year old patient," the portly detective remarked flatly.  
  
Malucci closed his eyes in agony. He was back here again - back in this blank, white, terrifying interrogation room. "Yes," he whispered. "That's what I keep telling you."  
  
"You weren't at Cook County General, like your sign-out sheet says you were."  
  
Malucci nodded. "That's right."  
  
The detective rolled his eyes. "That's not what you told the sergeant 4 hours ago. You said, and I quote-" he flipped through his papers - "in response to the sergeant's question, 'Did you kill Jing-Mei Chen?' you looked flustered and answered 'We had a fight. Things got out of control. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't mean to kill her, it was an accident.' " The detective read Malucci's quote dully; his eyes glazed over as he spoke so monotonously.  
  
Malucci stood up in fury. "I never said anything like that!" he cried, startled when the detective rapidly reached for his gun. Malucci quickly took his seat. "I don't know where you got that bullshit but it wasn't from me."  
  
The detective opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the opening door. "O'Brian, a word," a young officer requested. Malucci watched as the detective stood up and exited the room wordlessly.  
  
So Jing-Mei was dead. That much Malucci knew. Yet with the confusion of his arrest and the supposed "confession" he had made, Malucci didn't have the energy to weep for his friend. Nor could he accurately remember what had really happened last night. He had last seen Jing-Mei as he was trying to sneak out of the hospital before his shift had ended. She hadn't noticed him. If Malucci had known that that would be the last time he would ever see Jing-Mei Chen, he would not have left the hospital with Deborah West. Hell, he shouldn't have left the hospital with her, anyway. Even if some miracle occurred and the police would stop making up his confessions, Malucci would still be nailed for statutory rape. He was substituting one crime for another - his alibi for murder was that he was too busy sleeping with a 17-year-old.  
  
Weary, Malucci rubbed his eyes with his right hand, his left hand dangling from the handcuffs. If only there was a way to prove that he had been with Deborah last night, and not Deb . . .  
  
An idea slapped Malucci upside the head - "When do I get my phone call?" he hollered, fully aware that people were watching him through the two-way mirror.  
  
The detective re-entered the room and glared at Malucci. "They found another girl, doc," he snapped. "They found another girl with her throat cut open. Not that I need to tell *you*."  
  
Malucci stared at him. "What do you mean?" he asked crossly. "Did my fingerprints magically appear around this body, too?"  
  
"Don't get smart with me, doc," the detective warned. "We know you didn't kill this girl. But we also know that you've got friends on the outside. Friends who are willing to do your dirty work for you."  
  
Malucci groaned. This was getting ridiculous. "You've got nothing on me. I've been under your thumb for the last 4 hours. You've got no proof that I've killed anyone - because I haven't," he added hastily. "And I could give you a solid alibi if I could just make my phone call!"  
  
The detective just stared at Malucci. "Did you know this girl, Malucci? Her name was Madeline Crane. She lived on Riley Street in downtown Chicago, with her boyfriend."  
  
Malucci let out an exasperated cry. "You're not listening to me!" he shouted.  
  
"Did you have problems with her? Love affair gone wrong? Did you get someone, a real good friend, maybe, to get rid of her for you?"  
  
"Let me have my goddamn phone call," Malucci growled through gritted teeth.  
  
The detective shook his head. "Fine. You can have your phone call."  
  
Malucci sighed. "If I can get Deborah down here to tell you where I was last night, can I get out of here?"  
  
The detective was silent. He was *not* about to admit that it looked like Malucci wasn't guilty, after all. There was no way he was going to indulge the fact that Madeline's murder was the second in 48 hours, and it was beginning to look like a serial killer was on the loose.  
  
"I haven't done anything wrong!" Malucci complained. "I didn't killed anyone! Just let me call Deborah. She'll verify that I was with her all last night."  
  
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John Carter took a long drag of his cigarette and flicked the ashes into the gutter. He had quit smoking a long time ago, but he'd forgotten how much he missed holding the thin cigarette in his fingers, as the ashes wafted around in the swirling breeze and the beautiful, glorious smoke that seemed to envelope Carter in his utter misery. The nicotine that rushed through his blood and the smoke that filled his lungs were two of the most satisfying things Carter had ever felt.  
  
Well, almost the most satisfying. There weren't any syringes around for Carter to *really* relax.  
  
Things like this were not good for his rehabilitation. Carter had been teetering on the edge of his addiction for so long now, and just when he felt that it was behind him - BAM! These emotions came rushing upon him, and before Carter knew what he was doing the cravings were back again. He'd even been happy. No, actually, he'd been *very* happy - for the first time in a very, very long time. He and Rena were hitting it off quite nicely, he'd finally begun to love his job again, and his friends had finally stopped giving him that look, that look that said "Wow, Carter's acting strangely depressed/happy/normal today. I wonder what he's on?"  
  
Deb hadn't given him that look for the longest time.  
  
But it all changed last night. Something inside of him had snapped. Hell, he'd bought 3 packs of cigarettes only 15 minutes after Deb's death. No, this was not good at all.  
  
The picture of Deb's sheet white face flashed into Carter's mind again, and furiously he stabbed the cigarette into the curb. Why had this happened? What had he done to make this happen? He and Jing-Mei had just been talking, like they always did, and all of a sudden he had -  
  
The touch of a hand on Carter's back made him jump, then shirk away. "Carter," he heard Abby murmur as she sat next to him. "Are you smoking?"  
  
Carter didn't answer - silently he crushed the empty pack of cigarettes into a ball. "Just go away," he mumbled.  
  
Abby put her arm around his shoulder. "It was a terrible thing," she whispered to him. "No one wants to walk into a room and . . . and see that . . ." Abby trailed off. She was no good at this kind of thing. "I know I'm gonna sound bitchy but you can't backtrack on your rehab." There. Something she knew about.  
  
Carter glared at her. "You think I give a fuck right now?" he demanded. "I'm not shooting up, I'm just smoking a goddamn cigarette. Who the hell do you think you are to . . . to . . ." Carter shook his head, unable to think of the word. He pulled out another pack and furiously tapped it against his palm.  
  
Abby reached over and snatched the pack away. "I'm not letting you do this," she snapped. "No chemical will make you feel better. There's some things in life that you just have to deal with."  
  
With this Carter stood up rapidly. "Don't use that A.A. shit on me. You know as well as I do that some things are too damn hard to deal with. I was doing great for a while! The temptations were even going away! But something like this happens and I . . . and I . . ." Carter choked back a sob. "Just leave me the hell alone." He stormed away, leaving Abby to stare at him in awe.  
  
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"West residence."  
  
Malucci breathed a sigh of relief. He'd remembered the number right. "Hello, Mr. West. Is Deborah there?"  
  
"Who's speaking." The voice was gruff and authoritarian.  
  
"This is . . . uh . . . Dave Malucci." A twinge of panic ran through him - what if she wasn't home? What if her father didn't let her get on the phone? What if -  
  
"Deb!" the man called out. Malucci closed his eyes, praying. "Do you know a Dave Malucci?"  
  
There was silence. "No-o, I don't think so."  
  
"She knows me," Malucci explained hurriedly. "She might . . . uh . . . not remember my name."  
  
"She doesn't know you, guy," Mr. West growled. "Who the hell are you, anyway? How do you know my daughter's name? Are you one of those perverts who stalk teenage girls from their high schools and calls them up to talk dirty? Well, I'll have you know that I'm a lieutenant for the Chicago Police Force, and that I shoot bastards like you every day!"  
  
Fucking fabulous. A lieutenant. "Look, mister, I just need to talk to Deborah for one second, all right? I'm her doctor. Her test results are in." Malucci was sweating bullets. This was his only chance.  
  
"Oh, smart guy, huh? Think you're real smart? I-" The man's threats stopped momentarily, and Dave strained to hear a girl whispering.  
  
"You there?" the man boomed, and Malucci nearly jumped out of his skin. "My daughter says she'll talk to you." Malucci nodded as if Mr. West could see him.  
  
"Daddy, don't listen in, all right? I'll call you if this guy acts all perverted." Malucci waited. After a moment he heard the click of a phone, followed by another click and Deborah's voice. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hissed. "I told you not to call me here!"  
  
"Yeah, well, this is kind of an emergency," Dave snapped. "I kind of only get one phone call."  
  
Deborah began to laugh. "You're in jail?" she shrieked. "What did you do?"  
  
"Nothing!" Malucci cried, ignoring the cop behind him, who was snapping his fingers. "I just need you to come down here and tell them that I was with you last night."  
  
"Screw you!" Deborah hissed. "You think I'm gonna drive myself downtown to the fucking PRISON? For a guy who called me an immature little girl this morning? Get another one of your girlfriends to do it."  
  
"Deb, I'm in for Murder Two." There was a moment of silence, and Malucci could hear Deborah's sharp inhalation. "They're saying I killed a woman at 9 o'clock last night."  
  
"Did you?" Deborah asked curiously.  
  
"No!" Malucci hissed. "I was with you, at the bar!"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Deborah murmured. She chuckled. "That was fun."  
  
"Can you please just come down here and tell them that?" Malucci asked desperately.  
  
"That it was fun?"  
  
"No, for the love of-" Malucci was interrupted by the cop tapping him on the back, indicating that his time was almost up. "Just please," Malucci added hastily.  
  
"I'll try," Deborah grumbled, hanging up the phone.  
  
Malucci slowly hung up the phone and faced the cop. "She'll be here," Malucci informed him, uncrossing his fingers as the handcuffs went back on. 'Hopefully.'  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
"Dr. Weaver, I need your help," Cleo Finch said as she approached Kerry Weaver. "I can't convince Mrs. Crane to agree to the autopsy."  
  
Kerry Weaver nodded wearily. She'd only been on for 10 minutes, and - whew. What a terrible day. "Have you explained to her about the circumstances surrounding her daughter's death?"  
  
Cleo nodded. "She still won't agree to it."  
  
Kerry sighed and took the chart from Cleo. "She's in chairs?" she asked, hobbling to the waiting area.  
  
"Yeah," Cleo responded as she headed in the opposite direction. There was no way she was getting involved any further.  
  
Kerry scanned the area until her eyes settled on a haggard-looking woman. Her eyes were blotched with tears and her face was red and swollen. "Mrs. Crane?" she asked softly.  
  
Mrs. Crane's eyes darted up. "What?" she murmured.  
  
Kerry sat in a chair next to her. "Mrs. Crane, I'm Dr. Weaver. I know that this is a very difficult time for you, but have you been fully informed about your daughter's murder?"  
  
The woman's eyes narrowed. "It was that son of a bitch she lived with," she snapped. "I told her to move out, but she wouldn't listen. She . . . she wouldn't listen . . ." The woman's voice was choked with tears.  
  
Kerry let Mrs. Crane weep for a moment, then continued when she had control of herself. "We have reason to believe that she was murdered by a serial killer. There are patterns which match the murder of another girl's death a few hours ago."  
  
Mrs. Crane stared at Kerry. "Patterns?" she asked.  
  
Kerry nodded. "I'm not really at liberty to say any more," she explained. "But the truth is, if we can do an autopsy on Madeline, it would help us greatly." There was no need to say how unlikely it was that Jing-Mei and Madeline both died from an injury that shouldn't have killed them. No need to explain that there was some other factor playing into the scheme of things that had caused their hearts to stop. A slit throat - especially one that wasn't that deep - would not have killed them so quickly.  
  
Mrs. Crane closed her eyes. "I already told that other doctor that I don't want Madeline to have an autopsy," she murmured, misery lacing her voice. "She's already dead. There's no procedure that can help her. I want to bury her as beautiful as she was when she was alive, not chopped up and studied."  
  
"We wouldn't be cutting her up at all," Kerry quickly assured her. "We just need a few blood samples, to determine-" She stopped short. The police had warned her not to indulge any additional facts.  
  
"To determine what?' the woman asked, standing up abruptly. "If she was doing drugs?"  
  
"No, no," Kerry answered rapidly, standing up with the assistance of her crutch. "Not at all. We-"  
  
"You want to know if she was doing drugs," the woman stated, as if reciting a fact. "Dr. Weaver, I'm a good mother. I gave her the drug talk. I warned her about it. I even-"  
  
"You misunderstand me, Mrs. Crane," Kerry interrupted. "We're not doing a drug test. We-"  
  
"She didn't get them from me, you hear me?" Mrs. Crane cried, snatching her purse. "She must have got them from those losers she hung out with. But not me!"  
  
"Mrs. Crane-"  
  
"Just - no! No autopsy! Just leave us alone!" the woman shouted as she stormed away. Kerry sank into her chair, tired, worn out - and defeated.  
  
----------------------------------------------------  
  
"Hey doc," the gruff cop called out. "You got a visitor."  
  
Malucci jumped up from the bench in his cell excitedly. "Thanks," he managed to squeak as he rushed to the cell door and craned his neck to see down the hall. A wave of relief rushed through him as he caught sight of Deborah's slight figure. 'Thank you, God,' he thought gratefully, making a silent vow to attend Sunday Mass.  
  
"Dave?" Deborah called out, peering into the cells.  
  
"Over here," Dave yelled, waving his arm through the bars. The cop's rapidly descending baton made him quickly withdraw his outstretched arm.  
  
A distinct "tap, Tap, TAP" echoed through the hall as Deborah sauntered over to Malucci's cell. "You owe me, Dave," she hissed as a huge policeman walked up behind her and proceeded to unlock the cell door.  
  
Confused, Dave stared at Deborah. "Did you talk to them?"  
  
Deborah's elaborate nodding confused Dave even further. "Dr. Malucci, this is my father, Lieutenant James West," she announced grandly. "I told him how you were wrongfully arrested for killing the doctor, since you and I were together all night."  
  
The color drained from Dave's face. "You . . . told him . . . that . . ." he stammered, losing his ability to breathe. Something told him that this enormous guy would not like the thought of his underage daughter sleeping with a doctor she'd known for about 20 minutes beforehand.  
  
Deborah's eyes widened as she tried to get Malucci to clue in. "I told him," she explained rather loudly, "how I went into the hospital at about 8 last night, and how I had to be admitted all night, and how you stayed with me after your shift was over so I wouldn't feel so alone." Her eyes urged Malucci to catch on.  
  
"On behalf of the Chicago police department, I apologize for this misunderstanding," Deborah's father announced as he opened the cell door. "You are free to go. And on a more personal note, I want to thank you for helping my daughter last night."  
  
'Helping,' Malucci thought glumly. 'Is that what they call it now?'  
  
"I was on duty all last night so I couldn't be with her during the procedure," West went on. "I also apologize for this morning, on the phone. I misjudged you. I was under the impression that you were a psychotic rapist trying to get to my daughter," he put his arm around Deborah protectively, "but I was impressed to find out that you used your one phone call to tell her the results of her test." He eyed Malucci. "What were they?"  
  
'What were what?' Malucci thought, panicked.  
  
"The results of my mole," Deborah explained quickly. "Remember? That's why I was in the hospital all last night . . ."  
  
"Oh . . . yes, the mole," Malucci suddenly exclaimed, finally catching on. "The biopsy came back . . . er . . . benign."  
  
"And that's good?" the lieutenant asked.  
  
"Uh, yeah," Malucci nodded emphatically as he took a large step out of the cell. "Very good news."  
  
Deborah's father grinned and shook Malucci's hand. "Thank you, doctor. It's not often that I meet such a good, honest man as yourself. And again, I want to apologize for how you've been treated in the last few hours. We're just short on suspects right now for this case, and our officers tend to make snap judgements about people."  
  
Malucci nodded weakly. "So . . . I can just go now?"  
  
West nodded. "I've taken the liberty of filling out your paperwork to make this as minimal as possible," he informed Malucci. "For what you did for my daughter, I wanted to make this as pain free as possible.  
  
Malucci could only give a dumb nod as Deborah thrust a cardboard box into his arms. "Here are your things," she reported. "You know, the stuff they took from you when you were arrested."  
  
Malucci only kept nodding as he absently searched through the box. His wallet, his stethoscope, his keys, his condom wrapper - shit. "Thanks," he murmured, snatching the possessions from the box before Deborah's father had a chance to see them.  
  
"Daddy, I'll wait with Dr. Malucci while he hails a cab," Deborah announced suddenly. With that she grabbed onto Malucci's arm and pulled him through the front doors of the station.  
  
The fresh air and noise of traffic hit Malucci suddenly, and he let out the deep breath he'd been holding all morning. "Care to explain what just happened there?" he demanded.  
  
Deborah smiled and smoothed the collar of his scrubs. "It's good to have a cop for a dad," she giggled. "After you hung up, I told him that my doctor had just called with my test results, but that he was in prison for something I knew he hadn't done. He was like, 'How do you know?' and I was like 'He was with me when the other doctor was killed,' and-"  
  
"And you told him that I stayed after my shift to help you recuperate from a nonexistent biopsy," Malucci finished. "Why exactly would you have to stay all night for a little biopsy?"  
  
Deborah shrugged. "Daddy's not a doctor. He doesn't know anything about medical stuff."  
  
"And what about the confession I supposedly made?" Malucci demanded. "Deb, I told them everything. I told them that you and I were getting drunk when Jing-Mei was killed. Your father didn't have a problem with that?"  
  
Deb shook her head and moved closer to him; Malucci distinctly felt a hand on his ass. "I told Daddy," she explained, her voice getting softer as her lips came closer to Dave's face, "that they made all that up, along with the confession." She smiled seductively and put her hand on Malucci's cheek. "I'm just glad you're ok, Dave."  
  
Malucci rolled his eyes and squirmed out of her grasp. "Look, Deb, don't take this the wrong way or anything, because I really am grateful for your rather uncanny deceptive skills."  
  
Deborah took a bow. "Thank you," she told him, beaming.  
  
"But the truth is," Malucci continued, "I could have been in serious trouble! Even if they didn't arrest me for murder 1, they would have gotten me for statutory rape. You're a goddamn minor!" he exclaimed as he took another step back when Deborah ran her fingers through his hair. "You lied to me! You got me drunk and you could have gotten me put into prison for years!"  
  
"But I didn't," Deborah stated, finally taking her hands off of Malucci "And as far as I remember, I just got you *out* of prison."  
  
Malucci sighed. "I already thanked you for that," he grumbled. "But-" His words were cut short as Deborah grabbed him by the neck and kissed him passionately.  
  
Malucci nearly melted into the moment, forgetting anything but those tender lips - until he remembered where he was standing. He pried Deborah away from him and whispered "Deb . . . your father is less than 50 feet away. I'd rather not have my ass kicked right after I've gotten out of prison."  
  
Deborah stared at him, taking her hands away from his neck slowly. "You're cute," she finally stated. "But the truth is, I don't think we should see each other anymore. You're kind of lame when you're sober." With that she sauntered away, making *very* sure that Dave could see what he was missing. "Goodbye, Dr. Malucci," she called out over her shoulder.  
  
Malucci closed his eyes in complete weariness. "Taxi!" he hollered. Malucci glanced up at Deborah, then back to the street 'And that,' he thought as a taxi pulled up to the curb, 'had better be the last time I ever see that girl.'  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------  
  
Abby shivered violently outside of the hospital. The icy wind was becoming stronger as the sun set on the long and strenuous day, and Abby inwardly cursed herself for forgetting her parka at home. "Shit, it is *cold* out here," she finally muttered, her teeth chattering.  
  
Suddenly two gloved hands grabbed her shoulders - an intense wave of shock seized her and made her blood run colder than it already was.  
  
"You seem cold," came the throaty, accented voice.  
  
Abby let out a sigh of relief as she turned around and cuddled into Luka Kovac's jacket with him. "F-f-fuck yeah," she stammered, her shoulders visibly shaking. "How long ago did you get on?"  
  
"I'm just getting on now," Luka answered as he quickly rubbed Abby's shoulders to warm them up. "You should come inside now. Have some coffee." He looked down at her, and his eyes twinkled. "Lousy night for a graveyard shift, huh? I could *really* warm you up if I didn't have to go work."  
  
Abby chuckled and snuggled closer to him. "Speak for yourself," she retorted. "My shift just ended. I'm waiting for my cab so I can go have my hot affair downtown. Don't worry, I'll be home for a quickie with you tomorrow morning."  
  
Luka laughed and held Abby close. "No more talk about Carter, huh? It makes me jealous."  
  
Abby sighed. "Don't even mention Carter. I only talked to him one time today but that was enough to convince me that he may be relapsing. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it."  
  
"Don't feel guilty about Carter," Luka reminded her. "You were a great sponsor. Carter is just a weak man."  
  
"I guess," Abby murmured. "We had this huge argument when I caught him smoking this afternoon. I haven't seen him since then."  
  
Luka nodded, and they were silent. "I spent all day at the post office," he commented. "The lines are crazy right now."  
  
Abby nodded. "Thanks for doing that for me, by the way," she told him. "I try to get my taxes in before April 15th."  
  
"You mean, *I* try to get *your* taxes in before the 15th," Luka teased. "It was crazy in there. There was one woman who nearly killed me for getting the last stamps."  
  
Abby chuckled, and they were silent again.  
  
"So how has the day been?" Luka asked finally.  
  
Abby sighed. "You mean Jing-Mei," she stated. "I wasn't here when it happened. It's hit kind of hard in there."  
  
"What about Malucci?" Luka asked. "Did you heard about him?"  
  
Abby nodded and shivered again. "Yeah. I heard. They released him." She looked up at Luka. "Why the hell would they release him? They had the evidence and everything against him."  
  
Luka shook his head. "I don't know," he murmured. "How's Kerry handling it?"  
  
Abby rolled her eyes. "Let's just say if Malucci shows up anytime soon, I'll have to prepare *his* death kit." Abby suddenly realized the enormity of what she said, and quickly she added "I'm sorry. That was - uncalled for."  
  
"No, no," Luka told her, watching the cab pull up at the curb. "You've had a hard day." Reluctantly he unwrapped her from his embrace. "Abby, go to the hotel tonight," he told her as he took off his coat. "The security is better there than at your place." Rapidly he placed the coat on her shoulders; he was suddenly very aware of how cold it was when the icy wind hit him like a sledgehammer.  
  
Abby smiled at him, half teasing but half compassionate. "Luka, I'll be fine at my own place," he told him, relishing Luka's remaining body warmth inside the thick jacket. "I doubt Malucci will come kill me in the night."  
  
Luka's eyes were wrought with concern. "I'm going to call in sick," he decided aloud. "There's no way I'm letting you stay home tonight alone with a killer on the loose."  
  
"No, Luka," Abby told him firmly, giving him a slight shove towards the ER doors. "They're already short on doctors today. It's only 10 hours. I can survive for 10 hours."  
  
Luka watched her face for any signs of faltering. "Call the police if you hear anything outside your window. Keep a knife or something by your bed."  
  
Abby laughed nervously. "I'll be fine, Luka!" she exclaimed. "Now go!"  
  
Luka looked at her once more, then kissed her softly and shivered over to the ER doors.  
  
Abby watched him leave, her fear growing with each step he took. The truth was, she was *not* fine. She was scared out of her mind. Every part of her knew that she was alone, and as she watched Luka enter the ER, a pang of fear hit her. She was alone. What would she do if Malucci or some killer attacked her? Would she be able to grab a knife? Would she remember what to do with the knife?  
  
But then again, what would Luka do against a killer? Abby shuddered when she remembered the sickening "thud" of the mugger's skull hitting the pavement all those months ago. She had definitely discovered that Luka could - and would - kill a man when it came to her safety.  
  
And now she was alone.  
  
"Hey, lady, are you getting in or not?" the cab driver demanded.  
  
Abby nodded quickly and pulled the large jacket around her small frame. "Yes," she answered, stepping into the small taxi. "Chicago Hilton Hotel, please."  
  
------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Elizabeth!" Mark Greene hollered, tossing his coat and hat onto the sofa. "Are you home?"  
  
There was no reply. "Elizabeth, the doctor ordered you to be on bed rest," Mark shouted, flipping on a light in the living room. "Elizabeth!"  
  
Suddenly Mark heard a soft sob from the back of the house; quickly he rushed through the hallway and entered the master bedroom. "Elizabeth?" he asked cautiously.  
  
Elizabeth Corday was cuddled up in the queen-size bed, clutching a box of tissues and watching the television. Upon hearing Mark's voice she looked up from her pile of crumpled up tissues. Her eyes were swollen and red, and her voice broke as she exclaimed "Mark!"  
  
Mark's face was alarmed; he quickly sat down next to Elizabeth and embraced her tightly. "Elizabeth, what happened?" he asked worriedly. "What's wrong?"  
  
"Oh, Mark," Elizabeth cried, and the tears flowed again. "I . . . I was watching the news . . ."  
  
Mark glanced up at the television, where a female reporter was standing outside of an expensive looking house. "Police have now determined that this is the work of a serial killer," she stated, the wind blowing her short blonde hair slightly. "17 year old Deborah West was found murdered in her family home this evening at approximately 5:30 pm. West is the third victim of the killer in the last 20 hours. All of the victims have been young women of wealthy families, and have been found with identical injuries. The first and only suspect, Dr. David Malucci, was a collegue of the first victim, Dr. Jing-Mei Chen, who was killed at Cook County Hospital late last night. Malucci has since been released after providing an alibi for his whereabouts at the time of Chen's murder. Coincidentally, Malucci's alibi was the most recent victim, Deborah West, who stated that Malucci was with her at County General Hospital last night as she recuperated from a painful procedure. Police have been!  
  
reconsidering Dr. Malucci as a suspect, yet no actions have been made to arrest him again. As of now there are no other suspects for these murders. If you have any information regarding-"  
  
Mark reached over and shut the television off. "Elizabeth, don't worry," he murmured, kissing her eyes. "They'll catch Malucci, or whoever's doing this. Don't worry."  
  
"You were so long coming home," Elizabeth sobbed. "I . . . I didn't know what to think . . . this has been all over the news all day . . ." She pressed her face into Mark shoulder, trying to breathe normally. These kinds of emotions weren't good for the baby.  
  
"Shhhh," Mark soothed as he petted her hair. "It's all right. I'm home now."  
  
Elizabeth wept mournfully, and a mixture of empathy and rage built up inside of Mark. How dare someone do this to his friends - to his fiance! And if that someone happened to be Malucci . . .  
  
"We worked with him, Mark!" Elizabeth cried, lifting her head from his tear- stained shirt. "We worked with him every day! Why didn't we see that he was a killer?"  
  
"We don't know if he did this," Mark explained, trying to stay rational for Elizabeth's sake. "It could be someone else, for all we know. It could even be just some run of the mill psychotic killer."  
  
Elizabeth stopped crying and stared at Mark. "Malucci disappeared for an hour before Jing-Mei was killed," she stated as she wiped the tears from her eyes. "Then as soon as he got out of prison, his alibi was killed. What was he doing with that girl, anyway, Mark? You were on last night; did you see him in the ICU with any patient?"  
  
Mark contemplated this. All he could remember about Malucci's whereabouts last night was Kerry searching everywhere for him, ranting the entire time - and if Mark remembered correctly, her search had included the ICU. "No," Mark responded simply. Of course, the search for Malucci had ceased when Jing-Mei had been found in Trauma 1. But who had found her body? Mark honestly couldn't remember.  
  
Elizabeth seemed to be perfectly calm now. 'These mood swings are complicated,' Mark observed.  
  
"So who else was on in the ER at 9 o'clock last night, besides you and Malucci?" Elizabeth asked factually.  
  
"Uh . . . Cleo . . . Carter . . . some nurses . . ." Mark racked his mind to remember. Why was everything so hard to remember? 'I *was* a little preoccupied at the time,' he thought, 'what with trying to save Jing-Mei and all.'  
  
"Hmmm. This narrows down our suspect list a bit," Elizabeth murmured. Mark couldn't help but be amused at how deeply she immersed herself into the situation; even seven months pregnant, Elizabeth somehow became involved in everything around her.  
  
"Elizabeth, sweetie, this isn't Clue," Mark told her gently. "I'm sure the police are investigating everyone who was on last night."  
  
"Were you investigated?" she asked suddenly.  
  
Mark shrugged. "Sort of. They investigated Kerry and I together and we both verified each other's presence." Suddenly he turned to Elizabeth. "I left right after the second victim was brought in. The same guy who killed Jing- Mei definitely got to this girl. Her throat was slit straight across."  
  
Elizabeth's eyes widened. "How deep?"  
  
"Not deep enough to kill her, and Jing-Mei's injury shouldn't have killed her, either," Mark commented. "I spoke to Kerry about it afterwards. Both Jing-Mei and the second girl were brought in with no pulse and no BP. It was as if their hearts had stopped immediately in the attack."  
  
"But how is that possible?" Elizabeth asked, morbidly fascinated.  
  
Mark shrugged and lay down on the bed, propping his head up with his hand. "Hopefully they got an autopsy on one of the victims. Something weird is going on. I've seen serial killer cases before, and they usually involve some kind of mutilation - not just one cut across the throat."  
  
Elizabeth shuddered slightly and curled up next to Mark. "I'm frightened, Mark," she whispered. "It's very unlike me to be afraid of the Bogeyman, I know, but it's hit so close to home . . ."  
  
Mark kissed the top of her head and pressed his forehead to hers. "I know," he told her softly. "I won't let anyone get to you. I promise." Elizabeth's breathing was steady on his neck - for the first time that day, Mark felt complete relaxation. "Goodnight, Elizabeth," he murmured, not bothering to change out of his clothes.  
  
"Goodnight, Mark," came the muffled reply as Elizabeth's lips spoke against the skin on his neck. "I love you."  
  
--------------------------------------------------------  
  
The elderly janitor lugged the water bucket and mop into Trauma 2. With the amount of times he mopped them, these trauma room floors should be the cleanest in the entire hospital. But of course, there was a reason why he had to mop them several times a day.  
  
The doctors had the exciting job - they held human life in the palm of their hand. They could bring a dead person to life. He'd seen them do it hundreds of times. He'd seen the gratitude on the faces of the patients' families, and he's seen the heartbreak that occurred when the doctors simply couldn't save someone.  
  
When that happened, there were always those screaming machines; those shrill sirens that summoned the janitor to his job. Most of time he didn't know whether the person had lived or died, since all that remained when he got there was the blood on the floor.  
  
The janitor's back muscles strained as he lifted the mop and expertly squeezed it in the bucket. There wasn't much blood here. It wouldn't take long to mop it up. Most traumas ended with a little blood on the floor.  
  
The mop glided across the smooth floor, hungrily seeking anything on the green linoleum floor. It attacked the small puddle of blood vigorously and scrubbed the area until it was done.  
  
The janitor lifted the dirty mop and squeezed it into the water bucket. 'No need to mop the *entire* floor,' he considered as he surveyed the room. His eyes caught on a red spot, over in the corner of the room. Had he missed that earlier today?  
  
Quickly he stepped over to the spot of blood and scrubbed it with the mop head - like it was a speck of dirt or grime, instead of someone's bodily fluid. Like it hadn't run through Jing-Mei's veins only hours ago. 'There,' he thought triumphantly. 'All gone.' 


	3. Part 3: Incrimination

Title: DOA, Part 3: Incrimination  
  
Disclaimer: Nope, these ER docs aren't mine, although I'm thinking of investing  
  
in one of them. Does NBC really need all of these beautiful people around? They  
  
can spare one or two, I think. Would anyone *really* miss Carter?  
  
And even though a few of them will get hurt, I guarantee you - I will return  
  
them safe and sound. Except Carter. I'm not returning him at all :P  
  
Rating: R, for language and harsh scenes of violence  
  
Spoilers: Through "Survival of the Fittest." In other words, Mark and Elizabeth  
  
aren't married yet, Elizabeth is still pregnant, Carter and Rena are together,  
  
etc. (Serves me right for starting a fanfic before May Sweeps!)  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Abby awoke to the sound of a *bang*, a *thud*, and a "Shit!" Her eyes snapped  
  
open as she strained to here any more noise - who was outside the hotel room?  
  
Was that a footstep? Whose voice was that, only inches from the hotel room door?  
  
Abby abruptly sat up in the large bed and touched the knife on the nightstand,  
  
still watching the empty doorway. Whoever was outside the door was having a lot  
  
of trouble with the door. Abby craned her neck to listen, and another profound  
  
"Shit!" was whispered in the hallway.  
  
Cautiously Abby grasped the knife and stood up from the bed. She slowly stepped  
  
across the hotel room floor, cringing as the familiar *squeak!* of a loose board  
  
revealed her movement.  
  
Just then, a voice: "Abby?"  
  
Abby's shoulders sank in relief, and she let out the deep breath she'd been  
  
holding. "Luka," she murmured, placing the knife on the counter. Quickly she  
  
stepped to the door and unlocked it. "Having a little trouble?" Abby asked, her  
  
voice cracking with sleep.  
  
Luka nodded sheepishly. "I can never get that damn card to slide properly," he  
  
explained softly.  
  
Abby smirked and placed a hand on her hip. "It *is* pretty difficult, what with  
  
the card having two whole sides and all." She rubbed her eyes with her other  
  
hand and stepped out of the doorway. "How was your shift?"  
  
Luka shrugged as he shut the door behind him. "Pretty quiet," he told her. "Did  
  
I wake you?"  
  
"Oh no, not at all," Abby grumbled as she got back into bed. "I just happened to  
  
be awake at 4 in the morning. My pre-dawn stroll around the hotel room is very  
  
important to me."  
  
Luka sighed and took off his coat. "I'm sorry, Abby," he murmured. "I really  
  
didn't mean to wake you."  
  
Abby was quiet; she sensed the guilt in his voice. "It's better I got up now,  
  
anyway," she mumbled, her voice muffled by the pillow. "I'm on in 4 hours, after  
  
all. I hear that too much sleep isn't good for you."  
  
Luka sat down on the bed and stroked Abby's hair. "Another victim was brought  
  
in," he murmured. "Kaylie Gottesman. Another rich girl."  
  
Abby sighed. "They haven't arrested anyone yet?"  
  
"No. No one besides Malucci, and he was released." Luka paused. "I don't think  
  
you should go into work today, Abby."  
  
Abby turned over and looked at Luka. "Why not?" she asked. "It's just six hours.  
  
I can do six hours with my eyes closed. Which I may have to do, since I got  
  
about 10 minutes of sleep between the bumps in the night and the unruly  
  
Croatians banging at the door."  
  
Luka shook his head. "I'm serious. Whoever killed these women is still out  
  
there."  
  
Abby stared at Luka in disbelief. "County is swarming with cops, Luka," she  
  
stated. "It would have been more likely for me to be killed tonight in the hotel  
  
room than at the hospital." She sat up and looked him in the eyes. "It will be  
  
fine. I will be fine."  
  
Luka looked doubtful. "It isn't safe," he murmured. "What if Malucci comes  
  
back?"  
  
"Do you really think Malucci did this?" Abby asked softly.  
  
"All I know is that three of the four girls were killed when Malucci was out of  
  
prison," Luka informed her. "It isn't safe over there." Gently he touched his  
  
forehead to hers. "Please, Abby. I can't . . . I can't let you be hurt."  
  
Abby's own eyes began to well with tears as she saw his do the same. In an  
  
instant she saw more pain in his face than on any of the dying patients she saw  
  
every day at the hospital. But she couldn't stay home. She had to get to Carter.  
  
If he was relapsing, and she could have stopped him . . . well, she'd never  
  
forgive herself.  
  
Abby was torn from her thoughts as a tear from Luka's mournful eyes ran onto her  
  
cheek. "All right," she whispered to him, wiping away the tear and kissing him  
  
gently. "I'll stay home."  
  
She understood why he was so insistent, of course. He tended to be a little  
  
clingy with Abby at times, and it got to be sort of annoying - but deep down,  
  
Abby knew how angry Luka was with himself for not protecting his wife and  
  
children. There was no purpose in hurting him further.  
  
Abby felt Luka's strong arms embrace her, and she relaxed in his warmth and his  
  
steady breath on her ear. Maybe an overprotective boyfriend wasn't so bad, after  
  
all. She could always just stop in at County to check on Carter.  
  
-------------------------------------------------------  
  
"And no one's been arrested?"  
  
"I can't discuss it."  
  
"Well, do *you* think Malucci did it?"  
  
"I can't discuss it."  
  
Randi glared at the uniformed officer. "You might as well be outside the goddamn  
  
Buckingham Palace, for all the info you're giving me," she snapped.  
  
Just then a hush fell over the ER; always one for unwarranted tension, Randi  
  
watched eagerly to see what was going on. But her jaw dropped as she watched  
  
Malucci stroll into the ER, an indifferent expression on face. "He'd better  
  
avoid Weaver," Randi murmured, shaking her head and turning away.  
  
The eyes of the entire ER followed Malucci through the Admit area, down the  
  
winding hallways, past the lounge and -  
  
- right into Weaver.  
  
"Malucci!" Kerry snapped. "Watch where you're going!"  
  
Malucci plastered a grin onto his face and mockingly saluted her. "Yes, chief,"  
  
he responded.  
  
Kerry glared at him. "You're on thin ice, Malucci," she informed him sharply.  
  
"You shouldn't even be here."  
  
The humor drifted from Malucci's face. "Why is that?" he asked.  
  
"Talk to Romano. He's the one who made the final decision." Kerry glared at him  
  
scornfully, even though she did feel a little bit of pity for the guy. After  
  
all, he was about to face Romano. She quickly moved past him, but not before  
  
returning Dave's sarcastic salute and barking "Dismissed!"  
  
--------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Good morning, all," Carter greeted Haleh and Lydia at the admit desk. "How is  
  
everyone on this fantastic morning?"  
  
Haleh looked at Carter strangely. "Just fine," she responded, raising an  
  
eyebrow. "How are you, Carter?"  
  
"I am very well, thank you for asking, Haleh," Carter told her warmly. "Is the  
  
ER busy today?"  
  
"A bit," Haleh replied, still confused. Was this the same Carter who'd been the  
  
living dead yesterday?  
  
"I've got to go," Lydia said bluntly, moving past the happily humming Carter as  
  
he shuffled though charts.  
  
"Me too," Haleh muttered quickly. She caught up with Lydia. "What's gotten into  
  
Carter?" she whispered once they were out of earshot.  
  
Lydia shook her head. "I don't know," she replied. "But I hope it wasn't through  
  
a syringe."  
  
The pair took another glance at the beaming Carter and almost ran into Abby, who  
  
was tearing through the hall. "Excuse me," she mumbled as she moved around them  
  
to the admit desk, leaving behind two bewildered nurses.  
  
"Everyone's gone crazy around here," Haleh mused as she and Lydia walked away.  
  
Abby quickly surveyed the Admit area; once her eyes settled on Carter, she let  
  
out a sigh of relief and stepped over to him. "I've been looking for you  
  
everywhere, Carter!" she exclaimed. No need to mention the numerous  
  
possibilities for his whereabouts that had run through Abby's mind only minutes  
  
ago.  
  
Carter smiled at her and put his chart back. "That is so sweet," he told her,  
  
pulling her into a strong embrace. "You are such a good friend to care about me  
  
like that."  
  
Abby raised her eyebrows as she feebly patted Carter's back. "Uh . . . thanks,  
  
Carter," she managed to murmur. This was weird.  
  
The embrace lasted for several seconds of silence, and Abby could feel it  
  
growing long and awkward. "So, Carter," Abby finally stated as she forcibly  
  
pulled herself from the hug. "You seem . . . happy today. Are you all right?"  
  
Carter beamed at her. "Never better," he said happily.  
  
Abby nodded slightly as she took a step back and inspected this grinning man.  
  
The last she'd checked, Carter had been depressed enough to sulk in a cloud of  
  
cigarette smoke, cutting off any human contact at any cost. And now -  
  
A childish giggle interrupted Abby's thoughts, and she curiously looked at  
  
Carter. "What?" she asked.  
  
Carter giggled again. "Malucci's talking to Romano," he explained, his eyes  
  
dancing with delight. "Romano fired him."  
  
Abby's eyes widened with shock. "Romano fired Malucci?" she repeated. "For  
  
what?'  
  
Carter cocked his head at Abby, his smile fading slightly. "For killing 4  
  
people," he told her, speaking as if she were a child. "Haven't you been here  
  
for the last few days?"  
  
Abby nodded vaguely. So Malucci was getting fired - but was he really the  
  
killer? He had no motive, no real reason to kill these girls. As far as Abby  
  
knew, Malucci didn't even know any of the last 3 victims. 'Except Deborah West,'  
  
Abby remembered. 'She was his alibi for Jing-Mei's murder.'  
  
But why would Malucci kill his alibi? Had she been covering for him? Maybe she  
  
was going to go to the police, and Malucci had stopped her -  
  
God. Abby didn't want to think about it. Luckily Malucci wouldn't be at County  
  
anymore, so she would be able to breathe a little easier. Maybe Luka would let  
  
her out of the hotel room if Malucci were out of the picture - or better yet,  
  
behind bars. Abby cringed when she considered lying to Luka again. It was bad  
  
enough that she was here after she had called in sick - if Luka found out that  
  
she wasn't actually out getting doughnuts . . . if he found out that she had  
  
gone to the hospital . . .  
  
But what if his fears were well founded? What if Malucci decided to go on some  
  
vindictive killing spree, slaughtering anyone and everyone in the ER who got in  
  
his way? A shudder racked Abby's shoulders and quickly she decided that she  
  
needed to leave.  
  
Her eyes darted in Carter's general direction, and she noticed the blank glaze  
  
that had suddenly appeared in his eyes. "What's wrong, Carter?" she asked  
  
worriedly.  
  
Carter wasn't listening. Instead he walked away abruptly, snatching his chart as  
  
he left. Abby watched him leave in bewilderment. She didn't want to think about  
  
what was going on with him. She was tired of thinking.  
  
--------------------------------------------  
  
Shouts of fury and frantically ringing phones filled the police station as a  
  
haggard looking woman, about middle age, timidly walked in. "I'm looking for the  
  
person handling my daughter's murder," she informed the nearest officer. Her  
  
words were stern but her voice was trembling.  
  
"What's your daughter's name?" the officer asked as he led the woman to a filing  
  
cabinet.  
  
"Madeline," she answered. The note in her hand was wrinkling in her clenched  
  
hand. "Madeline Crane." The officer proceeded to open the cabinet and sift  
  
through the files, and the woman quickly added, "She was the second girl  
  
murdered by the serial killer."  
  
The officer nodded in comprehension, and quickly he withdrew a folder. "How can  
  
I help you today?" he asked, shutting the cabinet and studying the woman's  
  
miserable face.  
  
She held up the sweaty note with a shaking hand. "I . . . I found this in her  
  
apartment," she murmured. "I was gathering her things and . . . and this fell  
  
out of her purse."  
  
The officer took the note and studied it. 'Watch your back,' the note read  
  
simply, signed with a mangled signature. "Do you know anyone who would try to  
  
threaten your daughter?" the officer questioned.  
  
The woman shook her head. "Only her boyfriend, but his initials aren't J.C."  
  
Quickly she peered at the note and pointed at the signature. "I studied the damn  
  
thing for an hour and the only letters I could get out of the signature are the  
  
first ones: J and C."  
  
The officer nodded. "I'll make sure this is counted as evidence," he told her as  
  
he folded the paper and placed it inside the folder.  
  
The woman smiled at him gratefully and touched his hand. "Thank you, officer,"  
  
she said softly.  
  
--------------------------------------------  
  
"Dr. Weaver, I've got that chart you wanted," Randi informed Kerry. She absently  
  
handed Kerry a chart and turned back to her magazine. "Madeline Crane, right?"  
  
"Yeah," Kerry murmured as she read through the charts. She was surprised to see  
  
that Madeline had come into the hospital previously, only a month before she was  
  
killed. Ordinarily, this wouldn't be strange to Kerry, but it now created a link  
  
between Madeline, the hospital - and the only suspect. Intrigued, Kerry quickly  
  
scanned the old chart for the doctor who had tended to Madeline.  
  
Malucci. Of course. Her suspicions were correct.  
  
"I checked up on the other victims, too," Randi suddenly spoke up, trying not to  
  
lift her eyes to Kerry. This was getting juicy. "Kaylie Gottesman and Deborah  
  
West. They also have charts from a few months ago." Unable to resist, Randi's  
  
gleaming eyes darted towards Kerry's bewildered face. "And both were seen by  
  
Malucci." She watched Kerry for a moment, then excitedly added "Don't you find  
  
that suspicious?"  
  
Kerry stared at Randi for a moment. "Get me those charts as well, Randi," she  
  
murmured, tucking Madeline Crane's chart under her arm. "And start answering  
  
phones instead of playing Nancy Drew!"  
  
---------------------------------------------  
  
Romano paced around the office slowly, never taking his hateful glare away from  
  
the visibly nervous Malucci. His muscular hands were folded behind his back, and  
  
every time he passed Malucci, his hands clenched a little more. Suddenly Romano  
  
stopped pacing; he stared at Malucci for a moment of terrifying silence. "Take a  
  
guess," he snapped.  
  
Malucci's eyes darted away from Romano in a sort of primal defeat. A guess? "Uh  
  
. . . five," he mumbled. God. Compared to this, the interrogation room at the  
  
police station seemed sort of comforting.  
  
Romano chuckled sardonically. "Five," he repeated. Shaking his head with pity  
  
for this ignorant fool, he strolled to his huge leather chair and took a seat.  
  
"Five. Try fifty-seven."  
  
Malucci looked vaguely surprised, but Romano continued lecturing angrily.  
  
"Fifty-seven people who have called me up, threatening to sue the hospital  
  
because they've seen you on the news for killing Jing-Mei. Fifty-seven lawyers  
  
have cited their clients' lawsuits regarding you and your supposed attempts on  
  
their lives. Any person who has crashed under your care is now demanding to see  
  
us in court!" Romano was now shouting. "Am I making myself clear?!"  
  
Malucci was quiet. "Why did you call me up here, again?" he asked finally. "I  
  
have a shift to begin."  
  
Romano snorted. "It's in your better interest to keep your fucking mouth shut,"  
  
he snapped. "As of now, you no longer work in the ER. In fact, I'd recommend you  
  
getting out of this hospital before I call the police."  
  
A shocked chill ran through Malucci as he slowly absorbed Romano's words.  
  
"You're . . . you're firing me?!" he cried, his lungs feeling suddenly deflated.  
  
Romano smirked at him. "I can't afford to have you on staff anymore," he  
  
explained, a certain evil dripping from his words. "Once this whole thing clears  
  
up you may be invited back to County. But that depends on how quietly you  
  
leave."  
  
Malucci was dumbstruck. "What exactly am I being fired for?" he asked  
  
uncertainly.  
  
Romano considered this for a moment. "I find you to be a threat to my staff and  
  
my patients," he stated simply. "At the hospital we'd prefer to help people, not  
  
murder them."  
  
"Bullshit!" Malucci suddenly shouted, prompting another death glare from Romano.  
  
"You know I didn't kill anyone! You're afraid of all the damn lawsuits that are  
  
popping up - and of the hospital's fucking reputation! God forbid I should  
  
receive some kind of credit for being honest! I was wrongfully arrested for  
  
first degree murder, and now I'm being FIRED?" Malucci was becoming hysterical;  
  
finding the wooden chair a constricting soapbox, he stood up furiously. "You may  
  
be saving yourself from the patients' lawyers but there's no way in hell you're  
  
going to avoid seeing mine! Damn it!" Malucci ran his hand through his hair.  
  
"You're ruining my career just to cover your ass!"  
  
Romano watched Malucci, fury growing inside of him. Calmly he stood up and moved  
  
past Malucci; swiftly locking the door, he whipped around and snapped "Let's  
  
talking about covering one's ass, shall we? Where were you when Dr. Chen was  
  
killed?"  
  
The blood that had rushed to Malucci's face in his fury quickly drained back  
  
through his body at this question. "I was with a patient," he murmured.  
  
Romano nodded exaggeratedly. "And where were you, with this patient?" he asked.  
  
Malucci glared at him. "What are you getting at?" he asked bluntly.  
  
Romano scowled contemptuously. "Two nights ago Dr. Chen was found murdered in  
  
Trauma 1. You were paged several times, and then we searched the hospital for  
  
you. We were two doctors short that night, Malucci. Since you went missing and  
  
Dr. Chen was obviously incapacitated, we were dangerously short on ER doctors."  
  
Romano made a conscious effort to stir up all of his bitter hatred as he hissed  
  
"Your absence could have very well killed Dr. Chen."  
  
Malucci felt physically wounded at Romano's nasty comment. But Romano continued  
  
to rant, taking morbid pleasure in Malucci's pain. "It wasn't until we heard  
  
about your arrest in the news the next morning that your presence was verified,"  
  
he continued, seating himself into his leather chair again. "I took the liberty  
  
of stopping by the police station shortly after you were arrested yesterday. I  
  
was . . . perturbed, to say the least, to find out that your alibi consisted of  
  
statutory rape." Malucci's glare quickly faded, and Romano began to look  
  
triumphant - but still angry. "So imagine my shock when I received a call from  
  
the Sheriff's station a few hours later, saying that you've been released and  
  
that your alibi is now that you were with a Deborah West in the ICU after a mole  
  
biopsy."  
  
Malucci could literally feel the life draining from his body. He was caught in  
  
his - well, Deborah's - utter lie. And the worst part was, if Romano knew about  
  
it, then he now had grounds to fire Malucci.  
  
Shit.  
  
"So, being naturally inquisitive, I checked Miss West's file," Romano continued.  
  
"And again, I was surprised to see that she came in for a pregnancy test, not a  
  
mole biopsy. She was released an hour after she was seen. By you, I might add.  
  
Which now begs the question - " Romano leaned forward; his narrowed eyes were  
  
only a foot away from Malucci's face - "where were you at 9 o'clock two nights  
  
ago, Malucci?"  
  
Malucci hung his head. "I was at a bar with her," he murmured miserably. "I  
  
ditched the last hour of my shift and I had sex with a minor." His head snapped  
  
back up and there was anger in his eyes. "Are you happy now?"  
  
Romano snorted. "Happy? No. Not at all. Because of you, one of our colleagues is  
  
dead, along with three other innocent young women. Because of you, this hospital  
  
is no longer safe for patients or doctors. And because of you . . ." Romano  
  
shook his head with disgust. "Just go, Malucci. Get the hell out of my office  
  
and my hospital."  
  
Malucci slowly stood to leave; there was nothing he wanted more than to get the  
  
hell out of this place. It seemed that a judgement had already been made on him  
  
- nothing could be the same again. He quietly opened the door but was stopped  
  
when Romano added, "It's quite interesting, you know. The same girl whose  
  
testimony would have sent you to jail for statutory rape was found dead in her  
  
mansion only hours after your arrest. Strange how things work out like that." He  
  
sneered at Malucci. "Just something to think about."  
  
Malucci gaped at him. "Deborah?" he whispered. "Deborah was killed?"  
  
"Oh, I see the absolute heartbreak in your eyes," Romano commented  
  
sarcastically. "I'm sure you *really* loved her. And I'm sure that you were  
  
really looking forward to that trial." He rolled his eyes and swiveled around.  
  
"I'm doing you a favor by letting you go quietly. I could call the police right  
  
now and tell them all the lurid details. You would be crucified in court and you  
  
know it. You should be thanking me for -"  
  
"For what?" Malucci asked angrily, shutting the door. "Why don't you just call  
  
the cops? If you think I killed Deb and Deborah and the other girls, why don't  
  
you call the fucking police and have them arrest me again? I know that's what  
  
you want. Don't pretend that you're helping me. I know that you're dying to see  
  
me behind bars."  
  
Turning back around, Romano looked down and took a deep breath. Several seconds  
  
of silence passed, and Malucci quickly opened the door again. "I know you didn't  
  
kill Chen," Romano suddenly told him, not looking up. "And I don't think you  
  
killed the other two - you didn't have any attachments with them that I know of.  
  
But West . . ." He looked up at Malucci, a taunting suspicion in his eyes. "I  
  
don't know about West. I'd rather not get the authorities involved until I have  
  
substantial reason." He turned around in his chair again and grumbled "Now get  
  
out."  
  
Malucci moved through the opened door quickly. "With pleasure," he muttered,  
  
slamming the door behind him.  
  
--------------------------------------------  
  
Elizabeth nervously picked the nail polish off her thumb as she stared at the  
  
lounge door for any kind of movement. Sinking into the lounge sofa had helped  
  
her aching back, but Elizabeth had quickly realized how difficult it would be  
  
for her to get up if she had to.  
  
She was seriously rethinking this idea of surprising Mark for lunch. He should  
  
have been off twenty minutes ago; Elizabeth had timed it so that she would only  
  
have to spend five minutes there. Where the hell was he? Even being here, in the  
  
familiarity of the ER lounge, was nerve-wracking. She couldn't move a muscle  
  
without feeling that she was being watched. This baby was feeling more  
  
norepenephrine though his mother's body than any child should need to.  
  
Just then the door opened, and Elizabeth's shocked chill was warmed by Mark's  
  
familiar smile. "Hey!" he exclaimed, stepping to the sofa to give her a kiss.  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
Elizabeth smiled. "I wanted to surprise you for lunch," she told him.  
  
"That's so sweet," Mark smiled. "But you're supposed to be on bed rest. Doctor's  
  
orders."  
  
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Romano hardly counts as an authority figure," she  
  
scoffed. "Besides, I'm a doctor too, and I say that I've got some time before  
  
this baby comes."  
  
Mark grinned and offered a hand to assist her in standing up. "Speaking of  
  
Romano," he mentioned with a gleam in his eye, "he is supposedly speaking to  
  
Malucci as we speak."  
  
Elizabeth's eyes widened as she took Mark's hand. "About?" she asked, hoisting  
  
herself up from the couch.  
  
"About Malucci's termination." Mark grinned at Elizabeth. "Apparently Romano is  
  
concerned about the safety of his hospital."  
  
Elizabeth chuckled slightly. "His hospital's reputation is more like it," she  
  
mused. "I'm sure that I'll hear all about it when I get back to work."  
  
Mark nodded. "So where should we go for lunch?" he asked.  
  
"Anywhere, as long as I can get lobster," Elizabeth stated. "I've got an  
  
incredible craving for lobster."  
  
Mark laughed. "Sounds good," he commented. "We can go to the seafood place  
  
across town."  
  
Suddenly there were voices outside the lounge door - Elizabeth tensed before she  
  
recognized the male voice. "Nothing's wrong," the voice muttered.  
  
"You're lying to me," a woman's voice informed him, and there was a moment of  
  
silence. "Fine. If you won't talk to me, then talk to Abby or another one of  
  
your friends. But talk to someone!"  
  
"Fine," the man grumbled.  
  
Elizabeth listened as the man walked away, and then she looked at Mark  
  
questionably. "Was that-"  
  
The lounge door suddenly opened, and the young woman on the other end looked  
  
surprised to see people inside. "Oh, uh, hi . . . Dr. Greene, right?" she asked  
  
nervously.  
  
"Yes, I'm Dr. Greene," Mark told her, amused. "And this is my fiancÃ©e, Dr.  
  
Corday. Elizabeth, this is *Rena.*"  
  
Elizabeth looked puzzled as she tried to read his face. "Rena . . . oh, Carter's  
  
Rena! Of course!" she exclaimed.  
  
Rena nodded uneasily. "Yeah, that's me," she murmured.  
  
The lounge was silent; Mark felt the tension and quickly said "We should  
  
probably go to lunch now, Elizabeth."  
  
Elizabeth nodded earnestly. "It was lovely to meet you, Rena," she said, trying  
  
not to stare. Was she *really* 19? She looked much older.  
  
"You too," Rena said with a smile. She watched as Mark helped Elizabeth with her  
  
coat, then smiled again as they walked past her. Suddenly a slip of paper caught  
  
her eye - "Dr. Greene?" she asked, picking the paper off of the ground. "Did you  
  
drop this?"  
  
Mark stopped and took the paper from her. Studying it, he answered, "Nope. Not  
  
mine. I don't have this kind of money."  
  
"What is it?" Elizabeth asked, trying to see over Mark's shoulder.  
  
"It's a bank statement," he told her. He handed it back to Rena. "It looks like  
  
Carter's."  
  
"How do you know?" she asked, reading the paper over. "There's no name or  
  
anything."  
  
"Check out the amount in the account," he told her.  
  
Elizabeth looked at the statement and gasped. "My God - four million dollars!"  
  
she exclaimed. "I can guarantee you that it's not ours!"  
  
"What makes you think it's John's?" Rena asked again.  
  
Mark took the statement again and looked it over. "There are four different  
  
deposits of one million dollars each," he informed her, chuckling. "That's  
  
probably his weekly allowance."  
  
Rena smiled and shook her head. "I don't know . . . he couldn't even afford to  
  
get his car fixed last week. And he came up short for cash at lunch."  
  
Mark shrugged and handed the statement back to her. "Carter is a man of many  
  
mysteries," he informed Rena as he and Elizabeth left the lounge.  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
Alone, in the dark trauma room, John Carter sat on the cold linoleum floor and  
  
hugged his knees to his chest, weeping miserably. This was ridiculous. The mood  
  
wings were out of control now - he hadn't banked on this. Not at all. Sure, he  
  
knew that his actions might cause some sort of problems, but right now, he  
  
didn't care . . .  
  
He choked back a sob and lifted his head. This was it. Right here. This was  
  
where Deb had died.  
  
Carter lowered his head and cried again. He wept for what he had done, for what  
  
he had failed to do, and for this disgusting indecision that wracked his mind.  
  
He had already gotten himself in so deep . . .  
  
He let his hands drop to the ground - then drew his right hand back in alarm as  
  
it brushed past a sharp object. What was this?  
  
Curiously Carter squinted in the dark and wrapped his hand around the small,  
  
tube-shaped object. Bringing it up to his face, he nodded in recognition. A  
  
syringe - and an empty one at that.  
  
He softly touched the sharp needle with his soft fingertip. "Maybe this is what  
  
I need," Carter murmured, not meaning a word of it. He slowly dragged the needle  
  
down his finger, across his palm, and stopped at the painfully familiar veins at  
  
his wrist. The track marks from last still adorned the skin; they were a  
  
constant reminder of his weaknesses and pain. He contemplatively drew invisible  
  
circles on his wrist with the needle - pressing the needle a little harder, a  
  
morbid sense of pain and pleasure ricocheted through his body. The needle hadn't  
  
even broken the skin; the circle of soft flesh surrounding the point of the  
  
needle was slightly indented as Carter pressed a tiny bit harder.  
  
A sudden sense of shame overcame him at that moment, and he guiltily lifted the  
  
needle to where it barely touched his skin. No. He wasn't shooting up, of  
  
course, but the guilt was the same as when he'd stolen the Vicodin. The drugs  
  
weren't there, but the desire was - and that was probably worse than if Carter  
  
was actually using.  
  
Suddenly fluorescent light blasted through the room; alarmed, Carter jumped  
  
slightly at the surprise. A sharp pain in his wrist caused Carter to  
  
instinctively grab the injury as he squinted into the light.  
  
"Carter? What are you doing in here?"  
  
The familiar voice sounded strangely concerned and fearful. "Abby?" Carter  
  
responded, finally able to see her slight figure.  
  
There was no response; Carter watched Abby's unchanging expression of horror.  
  
"Abby?" he asked again, struggling to his feet.  
  
"What are you doing, Carter?" Abby repeated, her voice quavering.  
  
Carter looked down, ashamed. She didn't need to know that he'd been bawling like  
  
a child only minutes ago. "Just . . . thinking," he told her, praying that his  
  
swollen eyes wouldn't give him away.  
  
Abby again didn't respond, and slowly Carter followed her stare to the wrist he  
  
was clutching - and the needle he'd dropped. He unwrapped his fingers from his  
  
wrist and was alarmed at the amount of blood on his wrist and hand. 'What the  
  
hell?' he thought, giving no thought to the needle next to his foot. "I . . .  
  
cut myself," he told Abby hastily, making his way to the sink.  
  
Abby was silent, and Carter silently cursed himself for being so stupid. "Have  
  
you been depressed, Carter?" she finally asked.  
  
Carter finished washing the blood away and turned around. "Why?" he asked, not  
  
wanting to answer the question.  
  
"I'm just trying to help," she told him. "You don't need to hurt yourself to  
  
feel better."  
  
Bewildered, Carter stared at her - then finally caught on. "You think I'm  
  
hurting myself?" he asked incredulously. "Slitting my wrists or something?"  
  
Abby nodded. "I wish you had just talked to me," she told him, visibly holding  
  
back tears.  
  
Carter stepped over to her and looked her in the eye. "Believe me, Abby," he  
  
told her sternly. "I would *never* do anything like that. You just . . . you  
  
surprised me when you came in, that's all . . . I just slipped."  
  
Abby was confused. "You . . . slipped?" she asked uncertainly. "What exactly  
  
were you doing?"  
  
Carter chose to remain silent at this point.  
  
"Oh, God, Carter," she whispered, taking a horrified step back. "You weren't-"  
  
"No!" Carter exclaimed. "I wasn't shooting up."  
  
Abby stared at him with disbelief. "Show me your wrists," she demanded.  
  
Carter sighed. There was a fucking needle prick on his wrist - no way was she  
  
going to believe that he hadn't been injecting some sort of drug. "I can't," he  
  
told her mournfully.  
  
Abby closed her eyes. "Then take a blood test," she murmured. "Something.  
  
Something to prove to me that you weren't . . . relapsing."  
  
"I can't take a blood test, either," Carter said quickly. He didn't want to tell  
  
her why. His job was already hanging by a thread - no need to ruin his slight  
  
chances by telling her why she couldn't investigate his blood.  
  
"Why not?" Abby demanded. "If you haven't been shooting up then there should be  
  
no problem."  
  
"There is a problem," Carter muttered, looking down. "Just trust me. Please."  
  
Abby stared at him. "I can't," she whispered miserably, turning around and  
  
heading out the door.  
  
"Abby?" Carter yelled, following her down the hall. "Abby!" He caught up to her  
  
and grabbed her by the wrist. "Wait a minute! Where are you going?"  
  
"Where do you think I'm going?" Abby snapped, pulling her wrist from his hand.  
  
"Abby, you can't go to Weaver," Carter begged. "Please! This is my third strike  
  
- I'll be fired!"  
  
"Then take a blood test!" Abby cried.  
  
"I can't!" Carter shouted back.  
  
"Then I'm going to Weaver!" Abby turned around to leave, but quickly turned back  
  
around and snatched his wrist. Her eyes widened at the long, thin slash on his  
  
vein. Wordlessly she dropped his wrist and stormed down the hall.  
  
"Abby!" Carter hollered, too terrified to move. "Abby!!"  
  
--------------------------------------------  
  
"Trauma coming in!"  
  
Everyone's heads shot up in the ER as the paramedics burst through the ER doors,  
  
and Cleo Finch ran to the gurney. "Looks like the bastard got to another one,"  
  
she muttered, helping to wheel the bleeding girl to Trauma 1.  
  
"22 year old female, name's Melissa Porter," one paramedic barked. "BP's 80 over  
  
40, pulse is thready, down 10 minutes." He shook his head with anger. "Slit  
  
throat, just like the rest of them."  
  
Cleo gritted her teeth and swerved the gurney into the trauma room. "Carter!"  
  
she yelled. "Come help me out here!"  
  
Carter took one look at the dying girl . . . slowly he backed away, running  
  
quickly down the hall . . .  
  
Cleo let out a cry of exasperation as she wheeled the girl into Trauma 1.  
  
Quickly she and the team of nurses worked to hook the young woman up to  
  
machines, only to moan at the inevitable squeal. "She's already in asystole,"  
  
Yosh murmured.  
  
Cleo shook her head with fury. After a moment of rapid decision-making passed,  
  
she suddenly yelled "Charge to 200!"  
  
"Dr. Finch, she's already in asystole," Haleh told her, repeating Yosh's soft  
  
reminder.  
  
Cleo stared for a moment at the young woman in the gurney; only a long, thin,  
  
bleeding line across her throat . . . "Time of death, 14:31," she muttered  
  
hoarsely. Swiftly she turned to leave; stepping on an empty syringe, she kicked  
  
it aside and out of sight.  
  
----------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Dr Weaver? Can I talk to you for a minute?"  
  
Kerry wearily looked up from her paperwork. "Yes, Carter," she answered. "But  
  
make it quick."  
  
Carter cleared his throat nervously. "I was just wondering . . . if Abby had  
  
spoken to you at all today," he murmured. "In the last few minutes or so."  
  
"No," Kerry told him, narrowing her eyes. "Should she have?"  
  
"No," Carter responded quickly. "No. It's not important. I was just wondering."  
  
He opened his mouth to say something more, but decided against it and quickly  
  
turned away. He was safe - for the time being . . .  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
Abby furiously tore into the lounge and ripped her locker open noisily. How dare  
  
he do this . . . how dare he do what she most feared . . . how dare he make her  
  
into a failure as a sponsor - and as a friend . . .  
  
She bit her lip to keep from crying as she pulled her coat from the locker and  
  
rapidly put it on. She had to get out of here. She had get away from him - that  
  
lying sack of shit - and she had to get the hell away from this hospital. All  
  
she wanted was to be home again, and to be in Luka's arms again. She wanted to  
  
love and be loved by a man who would *never* lie to her face and betray her  
  
trust. Fucking Carter!  
  
Quickly she reached into her locker and retrieved her cell phone. Luka thought  
  
she was out getting doughnuts - he was probably pacing the apartment at this  
  
point. He might even have called 911 to see if her broken, bleeding body had  
  
been picked up. Abby chuckled through her anger. He was such a worrywart - then  
  
again, he was *her* worrywart.  
  
But she had had to check on Carter this morning. She couldn't have gone through  
  
the day without knowing what was going on, even if it meant lying to Luka and  
  
potentially putting herself in danger.  
  
Of course, now that she knew what Carter was up to, she wished she'd just stayed  
  
home with Luka.  
  
She dialed the number to his cell phone and was relieved to hear him pick up on  
  
the first ring. "Abby?" he asked anxiously, not bothering with "Hello."  
  
"Hey, Luka," she answered, letting out a sigh of relief. "Sorry for taking so  
  
long-"  
  
"Where are you?" Luka interrupted, obviously alarmed. "Goddammit Abby, I've been  
  
worried sick!"  
  
"I'm . . . stuck in traffic," Abby told him, immediately feeling guilty for  
  
lying to him again. "Rush hour, I guess."  
  
"You've been gone for 4 hours," Luka informed her. "Where the hell did you go  
  
for doughnuts?"  
  
Shit. "I had to some errands," she explained. "I told you that!"  
  
"For four hours?!"  
  
"Yeah, well, it's been a busy day," she grumbled. "But the doughnuts are on the  
  
way."  
  
"Screw the doughnuts," Luka said softly. "All I want is to see you, safe in my  
  
arms."  
  
Abby closed her eyes dreamily. "That's all I want, too, Luka," she whispered.  
  
Her eyes clouded with tears and quickly she said "I'll be home right away, all  
  
right?"  
  
"All right," Luka murmured. "I love you."  
  
Abby smiled, and a tear rolled down her cheek. "I love you, too," she told him.  
  
"Bye."  
  
She was putting the man through hell just by being away. Abby turned off the  
  
cell phone, wiped away a tear, and reached inside the locker for her purse. A  
  
brief thought of talking to Kerry Weaver flashed through her mind, then went  
  
away as quickly as it came. She could always talk to Weaver tomorrow, if need  
  
be. Right now she could only think of one thing - and it was the man waiting for  
  
her in his hotel room. The faster she got home, the better.  
  
Abby slung her purse over her shoulder and slammed her locker door shut. A piece  
  
of paper on the sofa caught her eye; curiously she picked it up and read it  
  
over.  
  
The realization hit her upside the head like a sledgehammer. Oh, God. OH, GOD.  
  
Her eyes fluttered with disbelief as she scanned the bank statement over and  
  
over again. No. No. It couldn't be. There was no way in FUCKING HELL that this  
  
man could be the killer-  
  
The creak of the lounge door opening caused her to turn her head - a wave of  
  
absolute terror ran through her as a man's gloved hand clamped over her mouth  
  
before she got a chance to see his face . . .  
  
The sharp, stabbing pain of a syringe in her throat tensed her stomach, then  
  
dulled her senses as her heart went mad . . .  
  
Abby barely felt the cold metal run across her throat, only a searing pain that  
  
slid along her skin . . . she felt the blood trickle down her neck, then the  
  
hand release from her mouth . . . no need to silence her anymore, since Abby  
  
didn't have the air to scream . . . she heard only footsteps, walking past her  
  
groggy eyes . . .  
  
. . . then nothing . . . 


End file.
